


In Vino Potestas

by demon_rum



Category: Eagle of the Ninth Series - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle (2011)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demon_rum/pseuds/demon_rum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 x Marcus got drunk, and 1 x it was Esca who had too much</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vino Potestas

Esca first saw his master drunk only a week after being purchased into the Aquila household. So far Marcus had been decent—hadn't slapped him, cursed him out or forced him into bed—which meant Esca was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. What was the really nasty, unbearable flaw in his new owner? The more he knew, the better.

Parts were obvious: bad leg, soldier, bored, moody. He teased more out of the other slaves: discharged due to injury, notorius father, served up north.

Finally, after a week of wondering and keeping on his toes, Marcus drank too much at dinner.

“Why did you ever end up staying in Britain, Uncle? I can't imagine choosing this province for retirement, not when there's an entire empire.”

“I came to like the people here, even the natives, the weather suited me, the horse riding is very good, and the place feels new. In Italy everything is so old—build a building, and everyone compares it to something their ancestor raised 400 years ago. Here I plant my garden and nobody criticizes me for it.”

Marcus snorted and glared out the window at the rain, wet leaves slapping against the doors. “The weather is shit, the food's worse, the women are ugly and the men are savages.”

Uncle Aquila chuckled. “Well, you're young. Give it time, you may come to like it more.”

“The only good thing that ever happened to this gods-forsaken hole was Rome. We brought roads and peace and art and baths and proper civilization, and what do they do in return? Fight, kill, rebel. Ungrateful bastards, all of them. Murdered my father and the whole 9th legion, because they couldn't bear the fact that we're superior to them.”

His uncle didn't reply, just lifted an eyebrow and tipped his glass. Esca's stomach turned as he realized where he'd finally heard the name Marcus Flavius Aquila before. At his father's knee, around the campfire, when the Blue Shield Brigantes drank and bragged about the Romans they'd killed up in the northern forests, a whole legion led by an arrogant man. At the Place of Heroes.

And this was his son. And Esca was his slave. What an awful man to have sworn an oath of honor to.

***********************************************************************************

The surgeon ended his prodding and poking, reassuring Marcus with the cheerful and terrifying sentence, “I have the best knives in the business.” Marcus just stared at the ceiling, nodding vacantly, while the surgeon and Uncle Aquila chatted about details of the procedure, how they would strap Marcus down onto the dining room table, how much linen would be needed to sop up the pools of blood, how the surgeon would run his knives through the boiling water between cuts, how he would clean the wound with vinegar before cauterizing, to prevent rot.

“Sometimes people are bothered by the smell of cauterized flesh, especially their own, but the best part is he'll probably have passed out long before.”

Esca had heard stories of the horrifying things Roman doctors did: carve off limbs, poke reeds into eyes to try and cure night-blindness, cut babies out of women... Britons used civilized methods to heal, not butchery. Salve, herbs, prayer, then leave it in the hands of the gods. Worse, he—as the patient's body slave—was likely going to watch the entire procedure.

He hoped something would delay the surgery. Maybe the villa would burn down.

Marcus called for some wine. Esca brought a pitcher of neat red, not watered down. His master didn't question it. Esca crouched in the doorway to his bedroom, watched him drink cup after cup until Marcus lay silent and stuperous.

He slipped out with the remains of the wine, checked to make sure no one was around, and tilted back the carafe. Damn. Nothing left.

******************************************************************************

The taverna in Calleva that the soldiers drank at was, predictably, full of soldiers. Traveling south to catch boats for the continent, if they made it across the fearsome Gallic sea, or traveling north to posts further and further from civilization. A few morose ones at a table in the corner drank with the desperation of men who were about to bid Rome farewell altogether. They'd been posted to the wall.

Marcus had come out of a burning need to avoid spending the evening playing latrunculi. Esca helped him limp over, still recovering but better every day, and now stood watching from a corner of the room. Bar maids flashed past with wine for other people, but never him. A few coins in his pocket would have been so nice, right now...

His master had money, of course. Spent it chatting with other soldiers, swapping stories and complaining about boot camp together. They commiserated over his leg. He told them stupid stories about the painted people. They laughed at dirty jokes and sang songs.

 _Oh I love my little mess tin with my name punched in the rim..._

 _Oh when I joined the Eagles, as it might be yesterday / I kissed a girl in Clusium before I marched away_

He was silent the entire way home, and Esca couldn't tell if it was an angry silence, a melancholy silence or simply a drunken silence. Not that he cared, unless he got hit.

He helped Marcus up the stairs, carefully, eased him into bed and helped him struggle out of his clothes.

“Is there anything else you need, Centurion?”

“No. Go away.”

Esca slipped quietly out the door but paused on the stairs. He had promised himself never to do this, never to sink to the level of other slaves. He still had honor. Usually.

He put his ear to the door. Waited to hear the calm, deep breathing that meant Marcus was asleep. Instead, he heard... something else. Quiet and rhythmic, hesitant at first but slowly getting more insistent. He smiled. His master, jacking off, not knowing Esca was listening outside the door. He moved in a little closer.

No. Not jacking off. Weeping.

They had something in common after all. His master also understood what it felt like to have the only life that mattered ripped away, to be replaced by—nothing.

Not that he cared.

*************************************************************************

Marcus leaned heavily on Esca's shoulders, as heavily as he ever had back when he was still crippled. Esca's legs, already aching with the fidgety weariness that comes from standing still for hours at a time, were struggling to hold him up. They weaved their way clumsily down the cobblestone street, while Marcus muttered complaints about prissy Roman girls and Esca tried to steer them both away from any obvious piles of shit.

A banquet party, some local dignitary celebrating a minor shift upwards in the enormous bureaucracy that ran Britain, an excuse for Romans to be Romans and eat nasty food, brag about ancestors and flaunt their money. Uncle Aquila had been invited, so Marcus had been invited. A good excuse to start introducing him back into society, they reasoned.

A casual comment about the lost 9th Legion triggered a bout of moodiness, which Marcus compensated for as any true soldier would—he promptly started drinking his wine straight and hitting on a young woman on the couch to his left. He drank a two glasses of wine and told her how elegant she looked in her gown. She smiled and said he was too kind. He drank another two glasses of wine and told her the best part about her gown was how it emphasized her tits. She pointed out she was married to the man hosting the banquet. He downed another glass while she glided off. A man on his right remarked that truly the army had gone downhill since his days of service, when officers were gentlemen. Marcus replied that being gentlemanly was fine for candy-ass stenographers who sat in the fort with wax tablets and honeyed-dates, pasty and fat and couldn't hold a spear upright, making centurions fill out requisitions and do all the real work. At that point the host showed up, demanding to know who had insulted his very new, very young and very rich wife.

Esca had a front-row seat to the entire mess. He didn't appreciate it.

Marcus kept tripping over the hem of his toga, grinding it into the dirt and cursing as he stumbled, and with every stumble Esca had to fight that much harder to keep him upright. His arms fished around in the layers of cloth, trying to keep ahold of his master's waist.

“Centurion, would it be easier for you if you took your toga off? The night is warm, and I could carry it for you—”

“No. Nope. Romans wear togas. Out in public. Oh gods.”

“Does the wine not sit well with you, Centurion?”

Marcus coughed, shook his head, paused, and burped dry heaves into his hand.

“Do not mention food. At all.”

“No, Centurion.”

They reeled two more blocks before he decided to make their lives easier. Help Marcus clear his head a little.

“A pity, Centurion, that you left before the end. I would have liked to see the plates of live snails in garlic cream sauce.”

Esca always thought ahead. He already had his feet out of the way.

**********************************************************************************************

Romans, never a people to miss a reason for a party, started celebrating Saturnalia about three weeks before the actual holiday. They had a hard time fitting all the various social occasions and outings and banquets and festivities into a five-day period, plus the actual Saturnalia tended to be a bit less formal (and a good deal more fun) because the slaves had time off too. Starting early gave them an excuse to enjoy the parties without worrying that the staff would rebel.

Uncle Aquila hosted a small gathering at his villa, mostly retired soldiers he had marched with once upon a time and neighbors who wouldn't turn up their noses at the food. Marcus was easily the youngest person in the room by 25 years, and his wine wasn't making things any better. For one thing, it was gone. Again.

He leaned against a wall and sulked. Esca moved around the atrium, offering olives and eggs and nuts from a tray. He made a truly terrible waiter. Marcus pointedly held his cup upside down, lees dripping onto the floor, until Esca took the hint.

“Olive, Centurion?”

Marcus screwed his eyes shut. “No—wine. What do you think?”

Esca shrugged, abandoned his tray on the side of the fountain and headed to the kitchen. Marcus followed him down the hallway on impulse. When Esca left the kitchen he walked straight into his master, nearly dropping the wine in the process. Marcus grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Careful now. Can't have you wasting any of that horrible vintage.” Esca nodded silently, pressing his lips together. Marcus placed his hands on the wall, one on either side of Esca's head, pinning him in. “Are you as bored as I am?”

Esca didn't answer, just lowered his gaze a little and stood very still. Marcus pushed on. “You and I are the only people here under 50. We should have some fun.”

“What would you like to do, Centurion?” Esca whispered. His eyes were boring a hole in the opposite wall.

Marcus shrugged and placed one hand on Esca's elbow. “Do you have any suggestions?” He slurred the word _suggestions_ slightly. Esca lifted his head and made deliberate eye contact with him, bolder than a slave would normally act. His lips were the only part of his face that moved when he spoke.

“Do you want to fuck me in my ass, Centurion? Or would you rather fuck my mouth?”

Marcus jerked away, rigid. “ _What_? What do you take me for? How dare you?” All the color had drained out of his face.

“You're drunk, Centurion. That's what masters want when they're drunk.”

Without a word Marcus spun around and stomped off down the hallway. Esca breathed a shaky sigh of relief; he had guessed correctly. Wanting it was one thing—hearing it put so bluntly was another.

In the morning Marcus didn't mention the party and Esca acted as if nothing had happened. They didn't make eye contact for a week.

**************************************************************************

The neighboring villa always threw a decent celebration for their household and always invited over Uncle Aquila's slaves as well. This made for a cheery evening, where the slaves drank too much and tried to talk about topics other than their masters, for once, while the masters filled wine glasses and passed around plates of food (prepared by a cook hired for the occasion, of course).

Esca, who apparently didn't like parties, stood alone in a corner while staring at a mural. It was rude but technically, since it was Saturnalia, he could be brash or happy or lazy or whatever he felt like. Marcus wandered through the room, offering wine as he went. Everyone took him up on the offer except Esca, who hadn't even touched his yet. He just gave Marcus an unreadable glance and shook his head slightly. He looked miserable.

Marcus ducked out and hurried all the way to his uncle's villa. When he returned he carried what he fervently hoped would, if not make peace, at least provide Esca with a decent evening for once.

“Here you are—happy Saturnalia!” He held out the jug, awkwardly, while Esca just stared. He pushed it forward. “Go on, take it. It's your present.” Esca took it reluctantly. Marcus kept talking to fill the silence. “I don't know anything about mead, but the man at the market said it was the best he had. Hopefully it's good. Um.”

Esca gave him a pretend-smile and bowed his head a little. “Thank you, Centurion. That's thoughtful of you.” He paused, started to say something else, stopped, slid past his master and headed for the way out. Marcus followed, discreetly, just long enough to see him walking into the night in the direction of their villa.

Marcus gave it an hour, then headed home himself. He found Esca sitting in the stables, kicking his heels and talking to a horse.

“Hey, Esca.” Esca whirled around, startled and tense. He looked at Marcus warily, and Marcus realized a beat too late just what Esca was thinking. He rubbed his eyes. “Look, I'm—I'm only here to see if the mead's any good. You can just tell me to go away, you know, and I will.”

Esca didn't lower his guard even an inch. Marcus waited until the silence grew long, then nodded. “I'll go.” He turned and began to walk away.

“The mead's good, Centurion.” A pause. “First present I've ever gotten for Saturnalia.”

Marcus looked at him evenly. “That's a shame.”

Esca shrugged. His face was more animated than usual. “Have you ever even had mead?” Marcus shook his head. “Come try it then. It's much better than your wine. Easier the next morning too.” He offered the jug so Marcus came over, took a sip, let the honey warm his throat as it slid down.

“It is good? It tastes fine to me, but I'm no judge.”

Esca started snickering. Marcus suspected the laughter was directed at him. “Yes, Centurion, it's good mead. Very good, in fact. You follow directions well.” Marcus smiled a little because Esca was overennunciating his words and he couldn't retort, not on Saturnalia. Esca offered him the jug again, so he took another swallow. More warmth.

Then Esca pulled the jug away. “That's all you get. I'm going to enjoy my present now.” Marcus realized he'd just been dismissed. He headed out. As he reached the door Esca called out to him “Goodnight, _Marcus_.” Marcus glanced over his shoulder but Esca had already turned his back to him. He was talking to the horse again.


End file.
